


Z

by asianonymous



Category: K-Drama - Fandom, K-pop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 11:00:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20226751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asianonymous/pseuds/asianonymous
Summary: A decade ago, Mikel and Eliza were friends (perhaps more)—in another life at another world both ran away from. Now Mikel is an up-and-coming singer-songwriter. Eliza is quitting her job in Entertainment. He ends up becoming her last project.





	1. Mikel

_Ten years and three months._

It’s been ten years and three months since Mikel left and now he’s coming back. Well, not back _back_, but close enough. Dan says Singapore is only 3 hours away from the place Mikel held his first guitar, first discovered he was different (and not in a good way), and first laid eyes on the bravest, most beautiful woman he knows—his mother. It was also the place he learned all of life’s tough lessons and all before he turned 18.

Now sitting in an 18-hour flight, he didn’t know if he was stoked or strangely terrified. By the way his stomach behaved, he definitely needed the bathroom or an antacid (or both). Everything might have happened all too fast and Mikel didn’t know if he made the right decision (or the absence thereof, which caused _this_ decision—it was getting blurry who called the shots, he or Dan).

But none of that matters now.

He was anxious as it is thinking about Tara in a flight case stowed somewhere in this bloated floating bus. No matter how much money he made in a show or how much Dan (or anyone else who thought his opinion mattered) tries to convince him to get an upgrade (for better sound, better compatibility, better everything), Tara remains irreplaceable.

“I will never play better with anyone else,” Mikel would say with finality. No one ever asked why.

Of course there was Reese (after Mikel’s favorite candy), September, Holly, Wanda and most recently Z (to remind him of the be-all end-all, the end game, the reason why he sings). All share the stage but Tara always gets the best songs. Again, no one ever asked why.

It was difficult in the early years when Mikel’s uncle Jae just took him in after finally cutting all ties with the side of the family that made all things complicated. Uncle Jae, his father’s brother, lived a normal life in Pasadena, had a normal wife, son and dog, and for the most part empathized with Mikel’s insatiable, incurable disease that is the passion for making music.

He set him up with a room and free meals which was more than what Mikel ever expected. He was free to be penniless, free to do his music. He was considered luxurious to his fellow artists who had day jobs and worried about rent and paying bills. So Mikel took it upon himself to work twice as hard as they and never took advantage of his good fortune. He figured maybe God felt he had enough pain in a past life that He decided to cut him some slack.

Wherever the luck came from, Mikel told himself he was going to enjoy it while it lasts and be grateful that he lived with someone who knew his father and was in some way as much a part of him as he was.

“Red or white?” the flight attendant leans over as Mikel only just notices they had dimmed the cabin lights.

“Actually, do you have any kind of Irish stout? Murphy’s?”

“We only carry the Guinness Extra,” she smiles.

“I’ll have that. Thanks.” The flight attendant nods and rummages through her cart in a delicate motion.

“So are you going to fly to see your mom?” Dan asks, casually reading the in-house shopping magazine, completely oblivious to the repercussions of asking such a question.

Mikel was about to say to add in some bar nuts. Instead he says, “Actually, can you just get me the strongest Bourbon you have, please? Dry. Double shot.”

“Okay, okay, dropping it,” Dan waves a hand in defeat and shuffles in his seat. “I’ll have that Guinness, sweetness.”

Mikel met Dan at a gig at Echo Park. Dan was a small-time agent handling mostly local musicians and had never booked anything noteworthy. But he was sincere and it wasn’t like agents were lining up to take him on so Mikel gave it a shot. Now, a few years later, Dan’s become more like a bossy older brother who sometimes don’t give two shits about you but always has your back.

Their gigs didn’t pay much but at least they were always working. If he wasn’t singing at some bar, he’d be at a wedding or those minuscule road shows that come and go.

“That’s what I like about you, kid. Anywhere I book you, you just sing. You know like a jack-in-the-box. Pop you open and _boing! boing! _off you go.”

Some people might think that insulting, but not Mikel. “It’s not like I have better things to do anyway,” he’d answer.

School was never his thing, although he did very well (once upon a time). He tried to get a day job like the rest but he ended up in the loo scribbling music and lyrics and eventually getting fired.

The truth is, music had taken Mikel’s soul and there was not much that anyone could do (especially Mikel). It was like a never-ending wild goose chase. If he wasn’t singing or writing songs, he was _thinking_ about singing or writing songs.

It started when he was 2 years old, his mom would say.

“Mikel just looooves music!” Miss Iris’s face lights up as she holds the tiny tot in her arms.

The women idling about, heavily made up and adorned with cheap sheepish smiles, flashed looks of distaste for Miss Iris and her bundle of joy, who not only raised eyebrows, but asked questions far too challenging for the family’s PR team to manage. This 35-inch lactose fiend has become the city’s hot new gossip: the newest member of the Garcia-Tan clan, apparently brought home by Iris Tan after her sudden sabbatical from the spotlight last April. Is it her baby? Where’s the father? Did she secretly wed overseas? Or the more scandalous question on everyone’s mind is: Did she have a baby out of wedlock? The phones have been ringing off the hook and no official statement has been released.

Within a 10-meter radius, only one lady showed interest in the boy and Miss Iris turned slightly to her direction as she says, “Even earlier when the band was playing, he was humming along and shouting _dance! dance!”_

“Impressive!” the woman in her late 30s responds almost immediately. “I wish I could say the same about my niece.”

“How old is she?” Miss Iris asks, naturally gravitating closer to her new acquaintance, towards the far right of the magnificent outdoor tent, erected on the sprawling lawn behind the Garcia’s ancestral home, just a few yards from the lake.

“She’s turning 2 in October,” the guest replies thumbing a smoked salmon mousse canape from a _platito_ (a small dish) in her hand; the platito was laced in floral embellishments around the edges and hand-painted in the center was a young maiden in the 1900s wearing a tennis costume, the skirt’s hem almost touching her ankles. There were 200 of these platitos circling the event, each uniquely illustrated and tenaciously sought after piece by piece by the Honorable Marianne Tan during her travels and retirement from the Supreme Court.

“Oh same age as Mikel!” Miss Iris seems to find this very fascinating. “I’m Iris Tan, you are?”

“Gemma,” she smiles as the live band transitions from an upbeat tempo to a somber one. “Gemma Castillo.”

The other scowling women had now magically disappeared as if by appointment, and the two are conversing privately.

“_Ai Dios Mio_!” Miss Iris gasps as if only now realizing something she should have much earlier. “You are Maestro Mateo’s daughter?”

“Yes, Miss, the fifth of eight.”

“I salute your mother,” Miss Iris raises a champagne glass and dips her lips at the edge of the crystal bubbly.

“And I as well.” Gemma is now feeling rather nervous speaking with the Mayor’s daughter at this annual Christmas gala. The Tans always threw one a few days before Christmas and usually with overflowing door gifts enough to fill your _Nochebuena_ table. They’ve done this for as long as Gemma could remember, as did generations of Tans from long before her time. Traditionally, only selected friends and government officials were invited, but this year, Don Vicente (now Mayor Vicente) decided to extend the invitation to a few more chosen individuals, to the utmost delight of Gemma’s father, who is not one to miss a gathering of intellectuals (which, according to his opinion, has now been reduced to a handful Mestizos who kept the values of the old and its taste for art and classical music).

Papá isn’t like other musicians at the time who propelled their offspring toward a musical instrument of their own liking, no. He did not subject his children to daily lessons of the string or conduct an orchestra in his own kitchen with the clinking and clanking of Mamá’s pots and pans. Mamá, who is famous for her braised pork soup and specialty fried fish that was so deliciously crispy even hours after its deep frying, is a retired school teacher. She now spends her days arranging said famous soup and fried fish (on the ledge of a small makeshift hut in front of the old bungalow) alongside white rice and dozens of other miscellaneous gastronomical offerings in the little _Sari-Sari _store, a small food stall she has managed for over ten years.

No, Papá did not follow in the footsteps of your average father with certain aspirations for his children. He was much more narcissistic than that.

Papá believed that music was not part of life’s trivialities (as were cooking or trading or other forms of activities as a means of livelihood—of course, only he thought these were trivial) and thus was not a thing to be “passed on” or inherited.

“Music is not something I can teach you,” he would say. “It may one day come to you; if not, you are better off in pursuit of other menial tasks.”

Papá never truly shared his music—that is, his very soul—with the children.

He taught Gemma other life lessons, yes, and they knew better than to make the slightest sound when he lifts his bow or sits in his study, or rocks in his chair.

He taught them devotion to family and respect for the elderly.

He taught them never to interrupt when adults are speaking (children are meant to be invisible, unless their presence is required), always carry one’s self with dignity (when Gemma was only 5 years old and didn’t understand this, Papá would say “Lift your head high in a crowd”), and lastly, that knowledge may make you a person of worth but that this is not an absolute truth.

“It is an immense honor, ladies and gentlemen, that I now submit your ears to tonight’s much awaited Entertainment,” the emcee’s voice resounds throughout the tent speakers. “Friends, please help me welcome to the stage, Maesto Mateo Castillo.” And he says it not in a circus host kind of way—loud and grand—but in a tone so soft and so solemn that as a guest you’d know that, unlike other normal introductions to an act, this one’s not supposed to be followed with an applause.

Silence.

If an ant had a heart attack that very minute and passed on, you would hear the faint cries of its family. But this wouldn’t happen either since an ant could not be permitted to die that very second. By royal decree of the King of Galas, not a single person dared to sip or chew or God-forbid _breathe_ in that tent under the stars, amidst the cool December air, behind the Tan ancestral home by Hilom Lake, and amongst the oldest known Acacia trees on the island.

Silence.

With a swift click of his elbows and the graceful placement of his chin on the violin’s chin rest, Maestro Mateo Castillo began to play.

Whether it was Bach’s Chaconne from the Partita No. 2 in D minor or Paganini’s Caprice No. 4 in C minor, it was of no consequence to Miss Iris Garcia Tan. It wasn’t because of her lack of fluency in the classics; on the contrary, she is the only one amongst three siblings who had quite a few successful recitals in the cello and would have wanted to further her amusements in music, had it not been for Father, who pronounced rather sternly since their childhood that though they may pursue all interests to their liking, business and (or) politics are the only paths available for their futures—paths paved at great cost borne by their Father, and their Father’s Father, and their Fathers before them.

As the years rolled by, Miss Iris learned more and more about the cost of being a Garcia _and _a Tan.

The Tans were shipping magnates, owning fleets and taking risks building more each year even as the economy plummets. It wasn’t difficult being a Tan; spending money came naturally to Iris. In exchange, this side of the family required two things: diligence and precision.

Iris was driven to the shipyard each night (even on school nights) where she painstakingly counted tens of thousands of greasy cash into the wee hours and filled in the necessary paperwork. She washed her hands with lots of soap and then dug her palms and fingers into slices of _lemoncito_ (left there by Linda the executive who sits outside her father’s office) to get rid of the distinct smell of the pier and the seas from whence the bills came, exchanged in the hands of seamen and wayfarers alike, going about their day to day, braving the seas and trading goods, hoping tomorrow offered better things than today. In the morning, Iris’s aunt Beatrice would deposit the cash to the bank and no one will ever have suspected that a 16-year old girl—who loved ponies (visiting them often at their ranch in Baguio), whose current passions included Freddy Mercury and the fictional character Holden Caulfield (though Iris would argue his real existence in her very soul and in every teenager on Earth)—thumbed through every Five Peso bill and consolidated all the figures in a green hardbound ledger book that by week’s end will be used for payroll for hundreds of employees working for Tan Shipping Lines. The Tans weren’t short on manpower, but generations of them had a high deficiency on trust. Also, one was never too young to get involved. The younger the better, one of his uncles would say. And so ever since news of Iris excelling in Mathematics and Economics reached the ears of the right people, Iris was summoned.

The Garcias, on the other hand, were the public figures in the family, rooted deep in the country’s dubious dilapidating politics, with influence so wide you would find a Garcia on any island serving as Senator, Congressman, Governor, Judge, Provincial Mayor, City Councilor, even Third Secretaries and Vice-Consuls of Foreign Embassies—from the smallest of errand boys to the Head of State at Malacañang Palace (where, in the 60’s, one of Iris’s distant uncles served his Presidency in the Third Republic). Garcia Street was dedicated to this uncle, and to this day, it remains a bustling part of town—a beacon to all townspeople and an integral part of local history.

This name was a lot harder to bear for it was more than a name. It was a way of life—a _legacy_—that Iris was born with.

There were expectations that needed to be met and falling in love with a musician (a drummer at that—the most lowly of the lows—according to her Mother) was certainly _not_ meeting expectations, to say the least. Yes, she was a Garcia _and _a Tan, but everyone seemed to forget that firstly, she was simply Iris—a young woman waking up to the world and finding her place in it.

When Iris’ parents found out about the affair, they were adamant that she end it (or else!). But, as with every young love affair, their bond only grew stronger. And when all things didn’t go as planned, Iris packed a bag and slipped through the maids’ quarters and out the back gate—for love, for freedom, and for a life she wanted to call her own.

Joon was late. It was daunting at first but Iris comforted herself that Greg, Joon’s buddy at the grill, might have missed his shift again and Joon had covered for him. It was not unlikely so Iris waited patiently.

Two hours became four, and four became six, and a patient Iris had turned from being agitated to fuming mad, to feeling an inexplicable uneasiness, and then grave and utter distress. This was _not _Joon—not at all. Joon—who was always early and called if he was running late, who loved her more than anything in the world and always protected her—would never allow her to wait at the plaza at this hour. At the very least, he would’ve sent one of his friends to make sure Iris was okay.

But no one came, not Joon or anyone.

Wounded beyond repair, Iris dragged her feet home and vowed never again to fall in love. When her father found out she had attempted to elope, she was on house arrest—indefinitely.

Had it not been for the baby, things would have gotten a whole lot worse. Well, things _had_ gotten worse because of the baby, but it was also _because_ of the baby that things _couldn__’t_ get any worse—_literally_.

Father couldn’t subject Iris any longer to prolonged chastisement as she would inadvertently fall asleep in the middle of the oration; he could no longer starve her (nor she, continue on a hunger strike) as she raided the kitchen almost every two hours demanding for a full meal or at the very least, a snack. None of them had any idea what was going on until Iris started to show.

Iris was devastated. Almost as much as Father and Mother. She had not heard from Joon since that night and she didn’t know what to do. She had never wished so much for him to be there with her, to tell her everything was going to be okay, to hold her, to stop her whole body from shaking. She screamed and searched for him but he was nowhere to be found. More than anything, Iris was terrified. And even today, she will tell you, that she had never felt more alone in all her life than in that moment.

It was all real-world pressure that may have overwhelmed any young woman of her time. It could easily have broken her apart, shattered her, transformed her into someone unrecognizable. But Iris was not a prosaic voice amongst her peers and the world she lived inside of herself carried wisdom and strength beyond her—the same wisdom and strength she gifted to her son who, like her a lifetime ago, is only waking up to the world and finding his place in it.


	2. Eliza

It had taken her all night to write the letter. She should’ve just copied and pasted from thousands of online samples she skimmed through last night but Eliza isn’t that sort of person. She may have paid Josephine Rodriguez 100 Pesos to finish the bias tape on her apron project for Technology and Home Economics and Sarah Flores 5 Pesos to eat her own booger—hands down, best time of her life (Eliza’s not Sarah’s, obviously)—but she would never be caught dead signing her name under someone else’s words. You may call Eliza a racketeer or a bully, but never a plagiarist.

She moved the red and white trike to the corner of the living room and gently closed the front door. A cold breeze ran through her neck and she smiled, just a little.

One month, Eliza thought. One month to figure out what’s next.

On the outside she may have looked tough and in control but no one ever knows what lies beneath. No one knew about Kimberly Watson then, did they? No one knows your demons but you.

Eliza had dreamt about her. Nothing big was happening. She can’t even recall a conversation. It was just her face—dark hair tied up in a bun, eyebrows nicely trimmed, light lip gloss. She wasn’t strikingly beautiful, Kim, but she wasn’t plain either. She had one of those _alright_ faces, a great body, and a personality that emitted energy of a thousand watts per millisecond.

Eliza doesn’t remember where she heard it first. It all seemed fuzzy now. All she could picture when she woke up at dawn, pulse racing and catching her breath, was Kimberly Watson hanging there—rope around neck, limbs stiff.

_Why you did it eludes me_, Eliza started to write. _I haven__’t spoken to you in over a year. A lot has happened since you left. There’s a picture of us in my cubicle from that night. Our drinks were up and we had toothpaste-ad-worthy smiles. Your eyes were heavy cuz you cried and said you’d absolutely miss me but I was very cool about it__.__ I told you it was time for you to go. I’ve told you a million times for so long. There was nothing left for you here. You weren__’t appreciated enough, I told you. You should go. _

Kim was only a few years older than Eliza, though she didn’t look it. She had been passed over for the Assistant Show Director position, not once but twice, by peers who weren’t even Show Captains—a position Kim held for years. Kim and Eliza worked together long enough to know that time in the business is limited. Moving on would be moving forward and the ship offered Kim just that.

The story that went around was that Kim started to date someone on board. It may have been all she could take when he broke it off. They spoke as if they knew her and that made Eliza angry. Kim had desperately wanted to be a part of someone for years. She’d slept around for sure, but Eliza knew deep down Kim wanted to be in a real relationship. The kind that goes places.

They can talk all they want, Eliza thought, but no one will ever know without a doubt why she did it. It’s one of those things life leaves out. Like when Eliza’s mother closed the doors on her. Anyone can guess. Eliza always assumed it was because of the religion thing. Years later she concluded that her mother just didn’t love her enough to get past it. But are those the real reasons? No one knows. Even if Eliza’s mother tells her herself, it won’t be the entirety of it.

_Words always limit truth_, Eliza wrote. _No one ever can express the entire truth. It__’s impossible. There are things deeper than vocabulary that our tongues are simply too inadequate to utter._

_I wanna know why you did it. I have to know. Maybe now you_ _’re capable of telling the truth in its purest form. Are you at peace? Is anyone ever? In this life or the next?_

It was the first time Eliza had written anything in almost 10 years. She sat there in bed, in the dark, holding her knees to her chest and she started to cry. She wasn’t ready to mourn for her friend. No, she wanted her _alive_. She wanted to find her. She wanted to _hold_ her.

“What the—” _bleep-_something-of-a-mother-_bleep-bleep_ cries the woman at the corner desk, holding her forehead as if the whole thing was going to fall off.

Eliza was so caught up in her thoughts she didn’t realize she’d tapped her badge at the main entrance, walked all the way down to Hollywood B, took the lift up the second floor, tapped again at the office door, and is now standing in front of her desk—a small 4 by 4, cluttered with her laptop almost dangling off the edge and polaroids strewn about the cubicle divider alongside post-it notes that may have been there since the 80’s. And sometime during the day, someone is going to say something about her unwashed cup with coffee stains that have turned black as night sitting just beside the pencil holder that looked like an explosion was about to happen.

“What?” Eliza looks up oblivious to what Yi Ling from the corner desk was talking about.

“Seriously?” Yi Ling replies still stunned.

“Wha—” Eliza stops short and almost instantly realizes what Yi Ling had been on about and laughs a little. “Don’t lose all your hair,” she says coolly as she drops her bag into the bottom drawer of her desk.

“Oh _you_ can, but _I_ cannot?” Yi Ling rushes towards Eliza without taking her wide goblin eyes off her. “What you thinking _sia_?”

“Holy—” _bleep-bleep-_something-in-Chinese-_bleep_ says another woman who arrives at her desk. “You okay _anot ah_?”

“Oi!” a boisterous laugh came from the door. “Ey, I like it _leh_," she is small and skinny, with boots all the way up to her knees. “It looks hot _sia_.”

“Your feet totally swimming in sweat right?” the one who cussed in Chinese—Hui Ling— turns and gives her a head-to-toe (and gets stuck on the toe).

“Twenty-one degrees in Singapore and the boots come out to play,” she strikes a pose.

“Good for you, Care,” Eliza says to the lady in the boots.

“Thanks,” replies Caroline Yu. “My two cents? It’s looks _mannish_ but it’s hot.”

“Thank you,” Eliza accepts the compliment. “About the hot bit not the mannish bit.”

Everyone was talking about Eliza’s new haircut, yes. They’d talk about yours too if you had long wild perms one day and straight pixie the next. _Just chop it all off, _Eliza fearlessly told the stylist over the weekend when she asked (for the nth time) whether she heard her right. Eliza heard things like: _oh my gawd_, _what a waste!_ and _did she break up with her boyfriend? _circulate amongst the hairdressers and customers alike. She paid no attention to them but ever-so-gently threatened the lady misting her hair that if she asks her one more time, she will find another barber who had the balls to do it.

“Mid-life crisis, _issit_?” Yi Ling is now standing beside Eliza, with fingers fluffing the back of Eliza’s hair.

“Yah! Speaking of—” Eliza grabs her arm and drags her to the small meeting room at the end of the hall. She locks the door behind her. “Listen, Yi Ling,” Eliza’s voice turns serious.

“Uh-oh,” Yi Ling unlocks the door quickly and tries to open it. “I _dowan_.”

“What?” Eliza stops her.

“Whatever you want to say, I _dowan_ to hear,” she says. “And whatever that letter is, I _dowanna _take.” Yi Ling eyes the letter Eliza was slowly laying on the table.

“Come on, Yi Ling,” Eliza sits and motions Yi Ling to take the seat beside her. It is a very small room, barely able to fit the round table it holds. It’s more of a supply closet turned into a meeting room. The air-conditioner gets really cold in that tiny space and because it gives off that intimate vibe, people usually go in there for the serious stuff. Also, everyone’s desks are too far from it, lowering the risk of unwanted ears.

“Does Pete know about this?” Yi Ling leans back, now crossing her arms.

“I’ve been here long enough and you know it,” Eliza inhales a deep breath as if courage was in the air and she had to take it all in. “The end of the month, okay?”

“Is it the extra workload? Cuz I can pass some of those small small things to Caroline.”

Eliza shakes her head, “No, no, really.” She expected this from Yi Ling. They’ve always been like family around here and Eliza has treasured that the most. Sure there was office politics but never as bad as you hear in other companies and the longer Eliza stayed, the easier it got—too easy in fact that perhaps that may be one of the reasons she’s ready to leave.

“There are certainly a lot of reasons why I shouldn’t do this. A lot. And no, I don’t have a job waiting for me somewhere. I’m just _going_ and hope I figure things out sooner than later.”

“You’re risking a lot, you know, El? Difficult _leh_ like that. Why are you doing this? Is there something going on? Do you want to tell me?” Yi Ling’s probing is unsettling. Eliza doesn’t know how to answer. On any given day, Eliza would have told her _everything_. It was a comfort to her that her boss was her friend but today was different. Today, Eliza couldn’t say anything.

After a long pause, “Okay,” Yi Ling says, “but I’m worried about you. When you’re ready, I’m here okay?”

“Thank you, Yi Ling,” is all Eliza could muster, feeling the weight on her shoulders pressing harder by the minute, with absolutely no one to talk to—no one who can truly understand.

“But… you going to hate me,” Yi Ling shuffles in her seat.

“Hate you? For what?”

“Well, since we’re here, I might as well tell you—”

“Okay… you’re starting to freak me out.”

“I need you for an event,” Yi Ling’s words roll out like a lightning bolt. “I’m sorry.”

“What?” Eliza is shocked beyond belief. Did she just say an event? Eliza tries to rerun the last 5 seconds in her brain. Did she really just say an _event_?

“You know I haven’t done events in what two years? You’re kidding right? You’re pulling my leg cuz I’m leaving—_right_?”

If anyone else was in the room with them, it would’ve been their cue to skedaddle. Tension was building up and it was getting really awkward.

Silence.

“_Right_?” Eliza demands.

“I’m not joking _lah_!” Yi Ling finally replies. “How can I joke at a time like this?”

Yi Ling’s eyebrows met in a frozen state. She always gets this resting Grinch face when she’s thinking about something serious.

“Then _why_ are you doing this? Are you doing it just to spite me? What _is _this?” Eliza almost bangs the table with her hand but holds herself back. They are friends, yes, but Eliza is always cautious about her behavior towards Yi Ling. She values their mutual respect—although now is definitely a challenging time to hold her end of the stick.

_What is she thinking? Is this some kind of trick to make me stay? I _don’t _want to do any events _at all! _End of discussion._

But Eliza isn’t bold enough to say it. Her eyes halt and are perpetually glued onto Yi Ling’s, hoping for a sign she isn’t about to spend the worst month of her life and ruin everything she’s worked hard for. If she ends up flopping the whole thing, she’ll be remembered as the idiot that did this _that_ year, and she knows more than anyone—no one ever forgets a major tanking.

Eliza feels herself sweat even with the air-conditioning at 15 degrees. That was always a thing in Singapore—as if to make up for the extremely hot and dry weather, the air-conditioners work twice as hard and you end up in a mall or a green room or an office that’s 15 below. It messes up your body. Eliza had a tough time adjusting when she first came. Over thirty degrees out and 15 under inside—and with the nature of her work at the time, going in and out of buildings—she got sick almost every week.

The escalators here run twice as fast, too. But if you ask any Singaporean, they’ll say everywhere else in the world, the escalators are slow. But it’s kind of a perfect representation though. Everything here is fast. Really fast. Nobody cares if you smile or make any kind of connection with your customer, as long as you deliver whatever you’re offering at tiptop shape and in the fastest possible way. It’s true too. Ask anyone who’s been here. Customer service is _not_ a forte, to say the least.

That’s why it was exceptionally challenging for Eliza to train staff with the principle “the customer is always right” when any local wouldn’t think twice to argue—_No_, they’re _not_—and would provide her with a list of very sensible justifications of why the customer, indeed, is _not_ right in any given scenario. Yes, Singaporeans are undeniably a very sensible people and perhaps one of the reasons why a business of a theme park—its income greatly dependent on guest count—would be so critically reviewed. Each year, neighboring countries like Japan would get rave reviews on customer service. One would read something like: it was great at Japan’s Takiko Park! There were 15 of us in the family and they let us take one photo each with Doraemon. And every Singaporean’d be like: _Siao!_ Who got time to take 15 photos? You think I so free _issit_?

“There’s a WIP later at 5,” Yi Ling says, completely dismissing Eliza’s earlier questions. “I’ll email you the details.”

“I can’t, I gotta leave early today remember? My sis got the WTA tickets,” Eliza pleads. “Tennis,” she adds after Yi Ling looks at her blankly. “The tennis VIP tickets she scored. There’s a meet and greet and all and this year’s the last one too. WTA’s last year in Singapore!”

Yi Ling lets out a big sigh and folds her arms again. She always does that. As if it helps her feel more like _the boss._

“What time is the thing?” She asks, trying to keep a neutral tone.

“Dinner starts at six.”

“Then just leave early.”

“Great! Thank you!” Eliza says in relief.

“I meant leave the _WIP early_ then go,” Yi Ling spells it out. “Take cab _lah_ or something. Miss a bit of the dinner. Just show face at the WIP.”

_Dammit! _Eliza hits the ceiling. _Dammit! Dammit! _

“Fine.” Eliza replies. Cold as ice. “Anything else?”

“No that’s it.”

It was the hardest conversation Eliza had with Yi Ling, ever. They’ve crossed hairs before but nothing like this. Usually, Yi Ling is a lot more agreeable. A lot more understanding. Reasonable, at the very least. But today she was hard as a rock. Nothing seemed to get through to her; Eliza played the scene in her head over and over. It ended so badly; she didn’t even get the chance to give her the letter. So Eliza walks over to Yi Ling’s desk (it looks like she’s busy talking to Gertrude, this old Producer that has bad breath and signature Auntie heels that look like they could stop a bulldozer) hoping to leave the sealed envelope by her laptop or something.

As soon as she nears the cubicle though, she could hear Yi Ling say, “Yah, Eliza’s taking the Michael event so she’ll be with you. Eliza!” she calls out.

“Yes boss,” Eliza answers, knowing Yi Ling _loves_ it when they call her that in front of important people. Yi Ling never says it but things always start right when you call her boss. Especially in front of Directors or someone in Creative or Design.

“Gertrude’s producing that event. Is called Unplugged or something, _issit_?” Yi Ling looks to Gertrude for help.

Eliza always hates it when that happens. When someone pretends they don’t know something just so they could throw the bone to someone they want to flatter by letting _them_ tell the story and get a real kick out of being someone who _knows_ something about this or that. Even if you know it _yourself_. You just pass it on for the other person to say, just to make them feel good. It’s so artificial. And tedious. What’s wrong with just saying it?

“We’y doin’ fow weekends’a booze ‘n blues,” Gertrude says in her horrendous—_awfully pretentious_—Australian accent.

Apparently she went to school in Australia for like a semester and returned a full-fledged Aussie—a tragedy Eliza now has to face in the next month. Event, _check_. Fake Aussie, _check_.

“Not blues _blues, _puh’ se,” Gertrude continues. _Dear God, make it stop_, Eliza gets the urge to cover her ears but stops herself. “Mo’ like acoustic music’a sorts. We serve free amber fluid, they pay for food o’course. And well, we provide the Entertainment,” she chuckles to herself. “That’s what we ar’ _hey_, Entah-tayyyn-ment?” Boy was she on fire.

“So it’s a ticketed night event?” Eliza asks, just so she could stop herself from laughing or vomiting, or both.

“Fo’ty-five bucks a pop with the freeflow,” Gertrude waves a hand in the air. 

“That’s steep,” says Elza. “So whaddya need me for? Sounds like Talent Buying to me.”

The only good thing about working here is that every little thing falls inside its box. It makes work a lot less complicated. A costume issue, for example: did it happen on set? Then the Stage Manager makes the call. Did it happen off set and with time to spare? Then call the Wardrobe Specialist or the Dresser. Technical issue: Is the mic faulty? Call the park tech. Is it the system? Call technical services. Everything falls into neat little pockets and any gray areas are up for debate until it’s decided which pocket they go to. No matter what, everything _must _be taken care of by somebody.

In this case, Eliza knows for sure: Talent Buying. When they don’t use internal performers and we engage outside acts—that falls under the Talent Buying team.

“Yes, bu’ Michael _will _be a resident,” Gertrude waves a hand again.

“I’m sorry, _Michael_?”

“Yes, TB’s go’ this American fellow who’ll be perfo’ming nightly,” Up and away Gertrude’s hands take flight again, which is really starting to get on Eliza’s nerves. “The’ll be otha’acts you won’t need to worry abou’ but this fella’ll be staying in Singapo’ for the entire month and the’fo’ he’s been pa’h’rked under your supa’vision.”

“Separate from park operations, okay El? It’s like ad-hoc _one_. It’s weird I know but we also got no choice,” Yi Ling horns in, deciding she had given Gertrude enough spotlight to show off her wits and make her happy. “_No_ show calling,” with emphasis on the _no_, knowing it would mean a world of difference to Eliza. “Just managing the talent, make sure everything okay, like that.”

Eliza feels an extra-large hippo hop off her shoulders almost instantly. _No show calling_, she echoes in her head. _No _show calling. _Hallelujah!_

The hardest part of Stage Management, in Eliza’s opinion, is the show calling. It’s a one-shot-one-kill, no take-back, no take-five arena of Entertainment. Take Hazrul, for example (the _best_ example to illustrate this): New Year’s Eve Countdown. Boy was that eventful. At one minute before midnight, the fuzzies line up, singers and dancers in place, and suddenly he’s missing the host! The idiot went to the loo and was nowhere to be found. Forty seconds. Can you find a missing person in under one minute? Thirty seconds. Can you? Twenty seconds. You need to decide whether your countdown will be the first in the history of countdowns to be a silent one (with no one counting 3,2,1 cuz your host is missing) _or_ count 3,2,1 at Twelve-O-something when then whole world’s friggin’ _done_ counting down! Hazrul chose the latter and waited for the _bleep_’n host, and won first place in the most delayed New Year’s Eve countdown in history (at 12:06 AM). And with it the delay of the ball drop (that may have cost us a few thousand bucks) and the fireworks (that cost a whole lot more).

Hazrul was never to be seen again.

Without show calling, at least now Eliza can sleep at night. And because it didn’t require any show calling was probably the reason Yi Ling chose her in the first place (since everyone is pretty tied down with bigger things like Halloween and Christmas). Eliza decides to roll with it. This Michael dude better not be a pain in the ass was all she thought.


End file.
